


Into Fire

by jbird181



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (to Minecraft lol), Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archery, Bathing, Blood, Cuddling, Fighting Kink, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Set in minecraft, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Swordfighting, The End (Minecraft), The Nether (Minecraft), monster hunting, shameless fluff, there's magic there can be indoor plumbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29966466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbird181/pseuds/jbird181
Summary: George reaches for his bow instead, going through the motions of nocking the arrow on autopilot. It’s an extension of his own arm as he breathes in, aims, and releases. The ghast explodes.“That’s one way to kill a ghast,” Dream beams. “Go off.”George laughs, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. “It worked.” He pads through the sand to the spot where the ghast had died. “No tear.”“Oh well. Seriously, George, that was cool.”The praise is heady, fizzing up in his chest like a regen potion. “Come on, you’re just messing with me now.”“I’m not, George, I’m not,” Dream says earnestly, touching his shoulder. There’s a layer of iron armor between them, but George could swear he feels the phantom weight of his hand anyway. George’s cheeks burn, and he pulls his arm away, a bit more roughly than necessary. The Nether always messes with your mind between the dry heat and the inability to sleep. The sooner they leave the better.Or,Dream and George accept the same quest to kill a dragon. Along the way, they learn more about each other, and themselves.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	Into Fire

George wonders if his otherness is as obvious to the villagers as it’s obvious to him that the stranger is…different. He can’t put his finger on it: it isn’t the lime green tunic, or the shimmering sword strapped across his back, or even the white mask flush to the top half of his face like a second skin, obscuring everything but his mouth and eyes. 

Those eyes are fixed on him right now. 

George feels himself flushing guiltily, face warm, but he meets the stranger’s gaze with a stubborn tilt of his chin. 

“I like your sword,” he says, inclining his head toward the blade at George’s side. 

“What?” 

“Your sword. I like it.” 

“Oh, thank you.” It’s the way he moves that’s different, fluid and sure. Dangerous. Next to him, George is hyper-aware of every awkward movement. He’s a hunter for sure. “I made it myself.” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“I’m in a tavern, aren’t I?” 

The stranger laughs and moves his pack away from the other seat at his table. George sits down. 

“What’s your name?” 

“George,” he answers without thinking. “What about you?” 

He straightens in his chair. “I’m Dream.” 

George gasps. “No way.” 

Dream laughs. “Yes way.” 

“The _ dragon slayer _ ?” 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he smiles. For someone who’s lauded by bards in songs and stories, he’s not what George expected. Confident, but not arrogant. 

Despite what some of the stories might say, Dream’s hands are flesh and blood where they rest on the table. They got his green cloak right though, and the mask that he apparently never takes off. “Why green?”

“Why not?” Dream counters. 

“Fair enough.” 

Dream’s smile is infectious. “Most people ask about the mask.” 

“Well?” 

“There’s nothing to tell.” 

George raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh.” 

“I thought you were hungry,” says Dream, and George lets the subject go, even though Dream was the one to bring it up. He’s heard what the stories say, who hasn’t? Sometimes Dream is a man who used to be human, before he turned to magic for speed and strength that few can match. Sometimes, he was never even human to begin with, an otherworldly force protecting the world from evil. Once in a blue moon, you might hear the rarest tale, in which Dream is an ordinary man. A warrior, a hero, but just a man, who trains hard and fights harder. A man who slurps his stew, apparently. 

It’s heavenly to eat hot food again after a week of travel. George likes sleeping under the stars as much as the next person, but waking up with a rock digging into his spine and the dampness that never goes away for the fourth day in a row gets old fast. 

George scrapes the edge of his bowl with his spoon, gathering the dregs of rabbit stew. “I guess you’re here for the same reason I am.” 

Dream nods. “The dragon.” 

George sighs. “Just my luck that the most famous dragon slayer ever happened to be in town.” 

Dream gives an embarrassed laugh and sets down his spoon. “You should come with me.” 

“Look, I appreciate it, but you really don’t have to, you know.” George attempts a light-hearted tone but his words fall flat in the space between them. He wants to kill the dragon, of course he does. It’s his job. George refuses to play sidekick to this hunter though, no matter how famous he is. 

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t serious,” Dream clarifies in a rush, learning forward. If it were anyone else, George would say they were babbling. “It’s nice to have someone watching your back, and we can split the reward.” 

Dream’s eyes meet his own earnestly, and George can’t look away, breath catching in his throat. Maybe he is magic. It’s an easy decision, a practical decision. “Okay.” 

Dream’s mouth splits into a smile underneath his mask. “Okay then. Are you staying in town?” 

“Yeah, I have a room here.” 

“Me too. We should probably set out early, I want to get to the Nether as soon as possible.” 

“Yeah, uh, fair warning, I’ve never killed a dragon before,” George interjects. He saw a dragon a long time ago, before he learned how to use a sword. The shadows are what he remembers the most, darkness in the middle of the day as the dragon blotted out the sun, wheeling vulturous circles in the sky. George’s killed his fair share of common mobs since then, zombies and skeletons and whatnot. No one calls in hunters for mobs like that. It’s the Nether mobs you have to watch out for. Wither skeletons especially like to slip through portals, and an infestation of those, or blazes, or a ghast, could mean the end of a village. Dragons don’t come through as often though, they come from somewhere else. George has never been to the End. 

“There’s a first time for everything,” Dream answers breezily. “You’ll be fine, you’re a hunter.” 

“If you say so,” George half-jokes. 

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Dream says flippantly. 

George stands up and drops some coins on the table. He can feel a muscle in his jaw clenching. He forces it to relax. There’s nothing to be mad about, and fighting with the person he’s about to spend at least a week constantly with is definitely a bad move. The rational part of his brain reminds him that the irritation he feels prickling like a cactus inside him is more likely a result of days of restless sleep outdoors than the man in front of him. George settles for replying, “I want to.” 

“Okay, great. So I’ll see you in the morning?” 

George glances back over his shoulder without looking, not allowing himself to think too hard about what he’d just agreed too. This is what he’d wanted when he saw the listing in town, after all, to slay the dragon. It didn’t matter whether he did it alone or with company. Either way, the village was protected. “Yes, see you in the morning.” 

It seems most likely, in the bleary light of dawn, that Dream just didn’t sleep last night. It would explain how disgustingly put together he looks, perched on top of George’s rumpled sheets while George splashes his face with water at the basin. Come to think of it, George isn’t actually sure that Dream needs to sleep. The man in question is sharpening his blade while he talks. George is pretty sure Dream hasn’t stopped talking since he knocked on George’s door and dragged him out of bed. Maybe he doesn’t need to stop to breathe either, how is George supposed to know? 

“So I’m thinking we go straight to the Nether,” Dream explains. “We need blaze rods and ghast tears, and we might even be able to get pearls there if we’re lucky.” 

“We might need to go mining,” George says. “Unless you have a diamond pickaxe.” 

“Why?” 

George gapes at him. “To mine the obsidian?” 

“Oh, we don’t need to mine obsidian,” Dream replies dismissively. 

“How else are we going to get to the Nether?” George laughs. 

Dream grins, the curve of his mouth almost predatory below his mask. “I’ll show you.” 

The desert is vast, George’s boots sinking annoyingly into the sand as they search for a lava pool. Sweat pricks the back of his neck, and George rolls up his sleeves in a desperate effort to stay cool under the quickly rising sun. George whoops as a lava pool finally comes into view. “Alright, fancypants, show me your trick.” 

Dream bounces on the balls of his feet. “Okay, watch this.” He drops cobblestone into the lava and pours his bucket of water next to it. George jumps at the resulting hiss of steam. The new obsidian seems to soak up the light around it. Dream hops around, building a dirt pillar and guiding the water to flow down around it. He dips the bucket into the lava, and before George can blink a portal has grown up around Dream as if by magic. He smiles and scoops his water back up. “Ta da.” 

George laughs breathlessly. “Okay, well done, Dream. That was kinda cool.” 

Dream bumps his shoulder with his own. George can still hear the smile in his voice as he scoffs,  _ “Kinda _ cool. You got a flint and steel?” 

“Yeah.” George fishes it from his bag. “How much food do you have? Shouldn’t we get more supplies before we go to the Nether?” He’d meant to stock up in town, but hadn’t had the chance. 

“I have food,” Dream answers. “We should go now. Every second we waste mining or hunting, the dragon just causes more damage, you know?” 

George hesitates, but lights the portal. “You’re right.” He slings his bow over his shoulder and nods at Dream, hefting his sword. Dream mirrors him, and they step through together. 

It always makes his head spin a bit when he goes through portals, even after all these years. George blinks at the valley stretching before them. “Ugh, this is the worst biome,” Dream mutters. 

“Do you want to try another portal?” 

“No, that’ll take too long.” Dream gestures at the sloping soul sand valley to their right, and the hint of netherrack in the distance. “Let’s try this way. We can get gold as we go.” 

“Lead the way.” 

George has never particularly  _ liked  _ the Nether, like most sane people. For one, it’s hot, for two, it’s dusty, and for  _ three,  _ everything here tries its best to kill you at all times. Dream, though, seems to be in his element, jumping across gaps like it’s nothing. A mournful cry echoes off the walls. “Ghast,” Dream says, matter-of-fact. Before George can notch an arrow, a fireball is tumbling toward them. He fumbles for his shield, but the blast is already sailing away, deflected by Dream’s sword. The ghast wails as the fireball makes contact with it, instantly exploding. 

“Whoa, how did you do that?” As he turns to stare at Dream, a shimmer catches George’s eye, tumbling towards the sandy banks of the lava lake below. He’s transfixed for a moment, but Dream is already in motion, hopping from imperceptible foothold to foothold all the way down the nauseating drop. He waves at George from the bottom, the shimmering object clutched in his hand. “Come down!” 

George gulps. “I can’t.” 

“Yes you can, it’s perfectly safe. Just step where I did.” 

George crouches by the edge, stomach flipping over. “No way am I trying those crazy jumps.” 

“Come on,” Dream coaxes. George backs away from the edge, crossing his arms to hide the way his hands are shaking. At the motion, Dream’s head tilts like he’s thinking. “Do you see the ledge right below you?” 

George almost says no, but when he looks closer, there’s definitely a ledge there. “Yes?” 

“You can lower yourself down to there, then there’s a foothold to your left, there, you got it,” Dream encourages. George slowly lowers his foot to the indentation Dream has pointed out, digging the toe of his boot into the netherrack. “Okay, now move your right hand down, you feel that rock sticking out? Perfect.” 

George readjusts his grip, netherrack scraping his palm, and follows Dream’s next measured instruction, then the next, and the next. Left foot here, right hand there, right foot here, yes, good. George doesn’t realize he’s reached the ground until he stumbles, boots hitting soul sand instead of air. There’s a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, and George looks up to see Dream, face shockingly close to his own. George licks his lips. 

Dream hands him the silvery object. It’s cool, almost wet to the touch. “Ghast tear,” he says. 

“Oh,” George breathes. 

Dream tucks George’s fingers around it. His hands are warm. “We need them for the crystals. For the dragon.” 

He nods. “To bring her home.” 

“Yeah, so we can kill her.” 

“Right.” Dream had explained it to him this morning, the truth hidden in the myths. A dragon who has slipped through a portal can be called back to the End with end crystals, formed of glass, an ender eye, and a ghast tear. The hunters will be waiting there when she returns. “How many do we need?” 

“Four. But they don’t always drop, so we should kill as many ghasts as we can.” Dream sheaths his sword. 

“How did you do that before? When you killed the ghast.” 

“Oh,” Dream laughs. “I just, like, hit it back.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll show you next time.” It doesn't take long for another ghast to sail across the valley, interrupting their search for gold nuggets. Dream taps his sword arm. “Hold your sword like you’re going to block, and then,” Dream guides his arm through a sweeping motion away from his body. “Hit it back.” 

The ghast shoots, and George swings. Heat seeps through his blade, warming the pommel as his muscles strain with the effort of redirecting the blast. As suddenly as it began, it’s over. Netherrack rains down as the fireball explodes just left of the ghast, which is still crying. 

George reaches for his bow instead, going through the motions of nocking the arrow on autopilot. It’s an extension of his own arm as he breathes in, aims, and releases. The ghast explodes. 

“That’s one way to kill a ghast,” Dream says, beaming. “Go off.” 

George laughs, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. “It worked.” He pads through the sand to the spot where the ghast had died. “No tear.” 

“Oh well. Seriously, George, that was cool.” 

The praise is heady, fizzing up in his chest like a regen potion. “Come on, you’re just messing with me now.” 

“I’m not, George, I’m not,” Dream says earnestly, touching his shoulder. There’s a layer of iron armor between them, but George could swear he feels the phantom weight of his hand anyway. George’s cheeks burn, and he pulls his arm away, a bit more roughly than necessary. The Nether always messes with your mind between the dry heat and the inability to sleep. The sooner they leave the better. 

“Alright, so that’s one tear down, three to go.” 

Dream lowers his hand, mask unreadable. “Uh, right,” he fumbles, seeming at a loss for words for the first time since George met him. “Three tears and a fortress. And pearls.” 

George gestures to the crimson trees clustered on the other side of the lava lake. “There should be piglins there, right? As long as we have gold armor, we can trade for pearls.” 

“Good idea. I think I have gold boots from the last time I was here,” Dream says, rummaging through his pack and pulling out a banged-up pair of golden boots. George swaps out his iron helmet for gold as well. His stomach growls at the sight of the steak tucked away in his pack, and he allows himself one bite to conserve it. They’ve already spent longer than he expected searching for a fortress, and the last thing George wants to do is fight blazes without food as he does not, actually, have a death wish. 

“Let’s go.” 

The air is thick in the forest, swirling particles tinting everything red. George’s sister used to try to scare the rest of them with vivid descriptions of how the spores would take root in your lungs, choking you out from the inside as you desperately gasped for air. She said a similar thing about watermelon seeds though, so she’s not exactly the most credible source. George holds his breath instinctively anyway as the spongy ground gives way beneath their boots. A piglin appears between the trees, snorting, and George rests a warning hand on his sword. He’s not scared of piglins, per se, but there’s something about what is essentially a metal hat being the only thing keeping you from having to fight for your life that makes his heart beat faster. The piglin grunts at them, eyes glassy, and continues past them. George breathes out and releases his sword to grab gold from his pack. He tosses the ingot between them, and the piglin breaks from his mindless trudge to lunge for the gold on the ground, inspecting it like the whole world is contained in that shiny metal. The piglin doesn’t even register Dream mining the ground out from under him, too entranced by the gold, until he falls into the pit. The piglin gives a disgruntled snort but throws gravel at them anyway, pocketing the gold. George shivers. Anyone who says piglins don’t give them the heebie jeebies is lying. 

“How much gold do you have?” he asks Dream, tossing another ingot into the hole. 

“Four,” he replies. “I can trade with him and try to find another piglin if you want to look for more gold.” 

The piglin glares up at them with beady eyes and drops leather on the ground. George unsheaths his sword, feeling marginally safer with the shimmering blade in his hand. “Sure.” 

It’s eerily quiet in the forest. There’s no wind here, not that there are any leaves for it to rustle, and the shroomlights in the trees cast strange shadows on the oddly squishy ground. George shivers again, despite the heat. The quicker he finds gold, the quicker they can leave. 

George places a block of cobblestone to mark the way back to Dream and starts searching, leaving himself a cobblestone trail to lead him back. His back is starting to ache from bending over to mine when he sees it. He bounds back along his path, skidding to a stop in front of Dream, who reaches for his sword in concern. “I found a fortress!” George calls breathlessly, and Dream’s face breaks into a smile. 

“Alright, now we’re talking.” One of the piglins tosses out crying obsidian, and Dream sighs. “Oh come on. I got twelve pearls so far, we only need four more.” 

“How much gold have you given them?” 

“Like ten million,” Dream groans. 

“Actually,” George laughs, handing him the nuggets he’d gathered. 

Dream turns to the crafting table and starts melting them into ingots. “Like twenty. Maybe more than that, I don’t know.” 

George sighs and sits down on the netherrack, finishing another steak. “I guess we just keep trying.” 

Dream drops in the fresh gold, peering into the hole. “Wait, what?” 

“I said we keep trying,” George repeats. “Dream, what are you doing?!” 

Dream’s head peaks out above the edge of the piglin hole, his mask the only part of him visible. “They dropped more pearls,” he answers, matter-of-fact, as he builds up out of the hole. “We have sixteen now, that’s plenty.” 

George stands up, reenergized. “Let’s go then, we just need blaze rods.” 

“Lead the way, George.” 

This time, the forest seems much less ominous somehow as they transverse the squelching ground, Dream jumping between the cobblestone markers. The clink of their boots against nether bricks is music to George’s ears as they finally enter the fortress, heading deeper in. It’s a relief to be on solid, familiar ground again as they sweep through the poorly-lit rooms, side-stepping zombie pigmen. “Yell if you hear a spawner,” George orders as they split up. He turns the corner only to come face to face with a wither skeleton, throwing up his shield in the nick of time. Its sword smacks into his shield instead of flesh, and George lunges at it, blade cutting through its ribcage. The skeleton clatters to the ground in a broken heap, dropping its stone sword. His own sword is coated in black gunk, and George grimaces as he wipes it off, careful not to touch the rancid substance. 

“You good?” Dream asks, appearing behind him. 

George tosses the ruined cloth aside. “Yeah.” 

“Good, because I found a spawner.” 

George hears the blazes crackling before he sees them, otherworldly glow dancing on the walls. “Ready?” 

Dream discards his cloak in a fluid motion, tucking the green fabric into his bag. He adjusts his grip on his sword, the lines of his body taut, like a bowstring drawn back. The guards on his forearms glint in the blazes’ light, armor protecting hard muscle. His answering grin is like the arc of a blade towards its target, unflinching, and beautiful in its own way. “I was born ready.” 

Fighting is like dancing, at least that’s what George was taught growing up as he learned how to fend off every monster the surrounding forest threw at them. There’s a rhythm to it, striking and blocking, fireballs thudding against his shield. Dream weaves through the blazes like he can hear the music of the battle in his head, beating in his heart, thrumming in his bones. Smoke begins to fill the small room, and George coughs, missing a step. His shield is down when the next blaze shoots, a fireball catching the edge of his sleeve. There’s a moment of searing pain, and George hisses through clenched teeth as the pain dulls to an ache. 

“Careful,” Dream says, and George grunts in response, stabbing the next blaze with more force than is strictly necessary to kill it. The blaze rod it drops leaves his hand tingling when he tucks it away to join the two others he already has. “How many?” 

“Three,” George answers, taking advantage of the momentary break in blazes spawning to catch his breath. “You?” 

“Two. Three more then.” They exchange a nod, and the melee begins again. 

When the smoke clears, there are eight blaze rods in their possession. George wipes sweat from his forehead with his singed sleeve, adrenaline still burning through him. 

“Over here,” Dream says, ushering him away from the spawner, which he blocks up behind them. 

George sheaths his sword and reaches into his bag for steak. “Fuck.” 

Dream looks up. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m almost out of food.” 

Dream digs a hunk of bread out of his bag. “Here.” 

“That’s not going to be enough,” George sighs, eating the bread along with the rest of his steak. “We need to heal.” 

Dream runs a hand through his hair, smearing soot on his mask. “It’ll be fine, we’re almost ready to leave anyway. We have all the pearls and blaze rods we need, and you have a ghast tear, right?” 

“Yes,” George says slowly. 

“I have one too, so we just need two more. I’m sure we’ll find ghasts on our way back.” 

“You’re right.” George sighs as he feels the healing start to take effect, scratches knitting themselves together. The ache of the burn on his arm subsides. He’s still tired, and Dream must be too, whether or not he’s human. “Let’s just go back to the portal and hope we find some.” Dream offers George a hand, and he takes it, letting Dream haul him to his feet. The valley stretches out before them, seeming broader somehow the second time around. George starts walking. 

There’s no shortage of ghasts as they retrace their steps. George’s willing to bet he could kill them with his eyes closed now, shooting them down by echolocation alone. He says as much to Dream, who replies, “Bet.” 

George laughs. “Actually?” 

Dream shrugs, smiling. “Actually.” 

George bites his lip. “Okay, I can try.” They both spin towards the telltale cry of a ghast, gliding across the sky. George laughs nervously. “Okay, eyes closed.” He breathes in, listening. His heartbeat rushes in his ears, and he lets the noise fade into the background, waiting. The ghast wails and shoots, and George pivots toward the sound, aiming just past where it came from. He releases the arrow. 

George opens his eyes. 

Soul sand sprays up into the air in front of them, as the ghast’s final fireball hits the ground, blocked by Dream’s shield. He turns to look at George, and it’s like looking into the sun, like falling off a cliff, like drowning. “That was amazing,” Dream breathes. “You’re amazing.” 

George’s face burns, overwhelmed, an unnameable feeling taking root in his lungs and choking him. “Thank you,” he manages, turning away. He’s insanely jealous, suddenly, of Dream’s mask, hiding whatever expressions cross his face. In contrast, George is an open book, exposed and exhilarated. A tear sparkles in the sand, and George picks it up. “Here,” he fumbles, handing it to Dream, unable to meet his gaze. 

“I, George—” Dream tries, stumbling over his name. Dream takes it, fingers brushing his own. “Thank you.” This close up, George can see his tongue wet his lips, see his throat bob as he swallows. “I meant it.” 

George tosses his head back nonchalantly. “I know,” he says. 

Dream laughs, and the tension eases. “You know,” he parrots teasingly. “Of course you do. That’s the last one, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, we have everything now.” George eats his last piece of mutton. “We really should have gotten more food.” 

“It’s fine,” Dream dismisses. “I see our portal over there.” 

“Where?” Dream points, and George follows the trajectory over a massive lava lake to their portal, looking considerably smaller from this vantage point. 

“Come on, let’s just bridge across.” 

George’s stomach flips over. “What’s wrong with going around?” 

“It’ll take too long. This is the most direct route, and we’re low on food, like you said.” 

“Okay, you’re right,” George admits. 

Dream starts placing cobblestone underneath himself, towering above the lava popping down below. “I’ll bridge, and you block any ghast attacks, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Just block, don’t try sending the fireball back or shooting, it’s too risky.” 

“Okay, okay. I got it.” Privately, George thinks he has the worse job. Without something to occupy his hands and mind, all he can do is crouch and worry about the endless lake of lava beneath them, waves of heat rising off it. He shuffles along behind Dream, readjusting his sweaty grip on his sword and shield. The seconds feel like hours as they work their way across. They’re almost to the other side when George hears it. 

“Block, George,” Dream says distantly, inching forward to add to their bridge. 

George squints into the fog. “Where is it? I can’t see.” 

“I don’t know, just block, George.” The ghast cries again, louder this time. 

“I can’t if I don’t know where to block from!” Before George can raise his shield, their bridge explodes out from under them, and everything shatters. 

George screams. He doesn’t remember grabbing the cobblestone, only falling, and placing blindly, and then the impact rattling his bones as he finally makes contact with a ledge. His mouth tastes like blood. 

They’re not dead. 

There’s a single block of cobblestone underneath them. Dream is clutching George’s shirt with one hand and placing blocks rapidly with the other. “Stand up.” 

“Dream,” George chokes out. It’s hard to think past the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Come  _ on,  _ I need more blocks.” George staggers to his feet and pulls cobble from his bag, tossing it to Dream. 

“If you hear a ghast, block your fucking shield.” George holds his shield in front of him, fighting to hold it steady with the way his hands are trembling. He turns in a slow circle, scanning the area. In the distance, the ghast disappears into the fog. 

_ “Dream, _ I—” 

“Follow me.” George inches along the new bridge behind him, crouching until they reach the obsidian platform. Dream grabs his hand and pulls, and for a heart-stopping moment George is falling again as he’s jerked into the dizzying embrace of the portal, purple sparks filling his vision. He falls to his knees on the other side, obsidian warm under his palms. Something catches painfully in his chest as he breathes in. 

George senses Dream beside him before he sees him, waves of relief breaking through the pain. “You’re bleeding.” 

Dream swipes at the blood on his chin, smearing it wildly. “George, you almost got us killed!” 

George gapes at him. “I saved us.” 

The setting sun casts harsh shadows over Dream’s masked face.  _ “I _ saved us, from the problem  _ you _ caused. You can’t do this shit in the End, George, you will actually get us killed.” 

George sits back on his heels. “Oh my god.” 

“I’m not kidding! I ask you to do  _ one thing,  _ and you’re useless! You have to learn how to block your fucking shield, holy shit.” 

“I use my shield all the time!” 

“No you don’t.” Dream hefts his sword, adjusting his grip. “Show me.” 

“What?” Everything aches as George stands up. He rubs the dust from his eyes. “Dream, we are not doing this right now.” 

“Block.” Dream swings, diamond sword splitting the light from the lava into shimmering fractals. George lifts his shield on instinct, the force of the impact reverberating through his shoulder as Dream’s sword slams against his shield. 

“What the fuck!” 

“Again,” Dream bites out, already poised to strike again. George had almost forgotten how good Dream is, blade an extension of himself as he dances around George. It’s all he can do to weather the blows, spinning to meet Dream with his shield. “Again.” 

“Dream, stop,” George growls, a jolt going through his forearm as he blocks a swing from the side. Dream winds up again, feinting in preparation for another blow. George throws his shield down and glares defiantly up at Dream. “Enough.” 

Dream’s eyes flash, body poised like a notched arrow. He doesn’t drop his sword, but he doesn’t swing. “You can’t expect to survive the End fighting like you did in the Nether.” 

“You know what, Dream? If I’m so useless, go kill the dragon yourself! You can have the reward, I don’t want it,” George snaps. 

“Fine, I  _ will _ then.” There’s nothing recognizable in that carved expression, in that icy tone. George turns on his heel and walks away, furious and unwilling to give Dream the satisfaction of seeing him cry. The sun is setting, light blinding through the trees as George stalks into the forest, sword a comfortable weight at his side. Exhaustion slowly breaks through his anger. His feet bring him to a tall oak tree, which he climbs on autopilot. George tucks himself into the intersection of a wide, curving branch and the trunk. He barely has anything, no supplies, no food, nothing but the armor on his back and the sword at his side. His shoulder fucking hurts. It feels good, in a sick, seething way, like cleansing by fire, burning everything away and starting over again fresh. George ignores the rumbling of his stomach and lets himself doze with eyes half-closed. Tomorrow, he’ll start over: cut down a tree, mine cobble, hunt cows. Maybe he’ll go kill the dragon on his own just to show everyone how  _ useless  _ he is.

At the crunch of footsteps on the fallen leaves, George’s hand moves instinctively to his sword, already awake again. It’s Dream. “George?” he calls. He can feel his eyes on him. George turns away. Dream can be silent if he wants to be. The sound of his footsteps is a peace offering, and it only makes his anger burn brighter. “You’re not useless, George. I didn’t mean that.” 

“What  _ did  _ you mean?” George shoots back, despite his resolution not to answer. 

Dream hops up onto the lowest branch, climbing. “Not that you’re useless, you’re not, George, you’re a really good hunter, and you did save us, I was just… scared.” Dream reaches the branch George is sitting on and carefully straddles it, leaving distance between them. “I was scared to lose you,” he adds quietly. 

“Why did you even ask me to come with you?” George demands. “It’s not like you need help to kill the dragon.” Now more than ever, George wishes Dream would take off that stupid mask. His face is inscrutable. He thinks his mouth tightens at the question, but how is he supposed to tell? It’s a mirage, George just seeing what he wants to see, water in the desert. 

“Well yeah,” Dream starts slowly. “I can kill dragons by myself. But I didn’t used to do that. I’d rather not. It’s dangerous, and it’s… lonely.” 

“You were lonely?” George repeats incredulously. 

“I mean, most of the guys I used to hunt with do their own thing now. Sapnap headed south last year, and Bad retired to be with his partner.” He looks so young, suddenly, the iron armor heavy on his broad shoulders. Despite himself, George feels his anger seeping out with every breath. 

“Have you ever thought about that?” George asks. “Retiring?”

“I can’t. There are still monsters out there, you know? I can’t just stop.” 

“It’s not your job to save the world.” 

“I’m not trying to save the world.” Dream sighs. “You don’t get it.” 

“I want to get it.” George touches his shoulder, and Dream deflates, looking away. He squeezes lightly, the muscle of his shoulder hard and unyielding under his fingers. 

Dream takes off his helmet and sets it aside. “It’s okay, George.” 

“Dream,” he starts, unsure what to say. Dream looks at him, and George’s hands come up to cup his face of their own accord. “Dream,” he tries again. “I’m not going anywhere.” The smooth bone of his mask is cool under his fingertips. In contrast, his skin is almost hot to the touch as George smooths his thumbs over Dream’s jaw. “Okay?” 

He almost thinks Dream isn’t going to answer, he’s quiet so long. He’s never been this close to Dream before. He’s unquestionably, excruciatingly human up close, stubble sandpapery under George’s fingers, hands hesitant on George’s hips, lips soft against his own when George kisses him, or maybe Dream kisses George. It’s hard to focus on such insignificant details as he kisses Dream again and again and again. “Okay,” Dream answers, looking at him so openly it makes George feel like he’s facing down the dragon armorless and empty-handed. “I’m sorry,” Dream says softly. 

George squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry too.” 

“Can we please get out of this tree?” 

George laughs despite himself and swings down. Dream lands next to him with a quiet grunt. George lights a torch and holds it in front of them, letting the steady orange glow guide them through the trees. A hand nudges his own, grasping awkwardly, and he almost trips over a rock. Dream is looking pointedly straight ahead. George intertwines their fingers, squeezing lightly. 

Dream squeezes back. 

George feels the warmth of the lava pool before he sees it. Dream has pitched a tent beside it, just out of range of the sparks. 

George sets down his pack. “You were right though.” 

“What?” 

“You were right,” George repeats. “I can’t fight like that in the End.” He bites his lip. “Will you train me?” 

Dream turns toward him, mouth soft as he smiles. “Of course. If you teach me how to use a bow so well.” 

“It’s a deal.” 

Dream’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, then closes again. He scratches the back of his neck self-consciously. The way he’s looking at him, George almost expects… well, he doesn’t know what he expects. It’s not what comes out of Dream’s mouth next. “Uh there’s a river nearby, if you want to, like, wash up.” 

“Are you saying I’m stinky?” George gasps, mock insulted in an attempt to break the sudden tension. 

“Yeah,” Dream laughs, tense lines of his body relaxing. “You go clean up and I’ll cook some food.” 

Despite his feigned offense, scrubbing the Nether dust and grime from his skin sounds heavenly, even though he knows the river will be freezing. He leaves his armor at the campsite. Without the weight pressing down on him, each step feels exponentially lighter. George folds his clothes neatly and swaps them out for the fresh set in his pack, setting his boots next to his bag on the shore. There’s only one way to do this. 

George dives in. 

The cold squeezes the breath from his lungs. Water sprays everywhere as George breaks the surface, gasping for air. The current tugs at his legs, but George resolutely digs his toes into the riverbed, teeth chattering as he reaches for his soap. As unpleasant as it is, there’s something electrifying about the frigid water, the way it sharpens everything. George scrubs the soot from his skin until it’s pink, and he can’t stand the temperature any longer. He dunks his head one more time to wash the soap from his hair and staggers out onto the shore, wrapping his towel around himself wantonly, rubbing the feeling vigorously back into his limbs. He can’t dress fast enough. 

The waves of warmth emanating from their campsite are a welcome embrace. Dream turns and smiles at him from his spot crouched over the campfire. He pokes at a piece of steak cooking on the logs with a stick. “Hungry?”

“Starved,” George answers, accepting the steak Dream hands him. His shoulder is still sore, but it’s nothing some food and a good night of sleep won’t heal. “The river’s all yours,” he adds. “I’m not sharing the tent with you if you’re all stinky.” 

Dream laughs. “I’m going, I’m going.” He disappears into the forest, outside of the circle of light cast by the lava. George wolfs down his steak by the fire, flickering flames warming him through as he stares at them with heavy eyelids, fighting to keep watch. 

At the crunch of footsteps on sand, George bolts awake, unsure how much time has passed. “You have a sleeping bag, right?” Dream asks. 

George turns to face him, standing. “Yeah, I—” His breath catches in his throat. Dream shifts his weight from side to side, fidgeting. 

He’s not wearing his mask. 

He has a nice face, George thinks, almost giddily. Dream’s nose is a bit crooked, and there’s a scar across one cheek. George reaches out to run his thumb across the raised skin. His eyes are green up close, his cheeks pink and warm under George’s hands. “Wow.” 

Dream laughs nervously. “Is that a good wow or a bad wow?” 

George kisses him, still cupping his face in his hands as their lips meet. Dream goes pliant under his touch, hands coming around to grip the hem of George’s shirt as he kisses him back hungrily. “Good wow. Don’t be an idiot.” 

Dream laughs breathlessly, fingers still tangled in George’s shirt. “I hate you.” 

“Mm hm,” George says into Dream’s mouth, kissing him again. His lips are soft against his own even as he kisses with the same desperate urgency George feels pooling in his stomach. 

When they finally pull apart, Dream buries his face in George’s shoulder, damp hair tickling his neck. “As I was  _ saying,  _ I was thinking we could put my sleeping bag on the bottom, and then yours on top, and then we’ll be, like, extra warm.” 

George laughs softly. “Mm hm, extra warm. I see what this is about.” 

“Shut up,” Dream groans, kissing him again, which turns out to be a very effective way of shutting him up. 

Somehow, they end up in the tent, tucked between two sleeping bags. George kisses Dream’s jaw right where it meets his ear, and Dream shivers deliciously, pulling George closer. George nestles his head on Dream’s chest, throwing an arm across his stomach. He’s half-asleep when Dream speaks. “There’s no one I’d rather kill this dragon with, George.” George stirs, face burning, unsure what to say. “I’m glad it’s you,” Dream continues, words rushing out like they’re being swept by a current. “I’m glad I met you.” 

George kisses him for it. He thinks he’ll never get tired of kissing him. “I’m glad I met you too.” 

No matter what position George falls asleep in, no matter how flat the ground was the night before, there always manages to be a rock digging into his spine when he wakes up. This morning though, he doesn’t mind so much. 

Dream is warm and solid and real next to him, his arm wrapped around George’s back. As George stirs, he feels Dream’s fingers tighten on his shirt like an otter holding onto sea grass, anchoring himself to the shore. George brushes Dream’s messy hair back from his forehead, fondness welling up in his chest like a river bank overflowing. 

Dream blinks sleepily up at him. “Morning.” 

George laughs delightedly. “Good morning, Dream.” He traces the curve of Dream’s cheekbone with his fingertips, entranced by what the sunrise has revealed. “You have freckles.” 

Dream wrinkles his nose. “I know.” 

George kisses his cheek, and then his other cheek for good measure. “It’s cute.” 

Dream tilts his face up expectantly for another kiss, and it’s all George can do to oblige, kissing him thoroughly. They lay there for a few more minutes before Dream sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There will be time for this later, for lazy mornings in bed, for taking advantage of the strip of skin revealed when Dream raises his arms in a luxurious stretch. For now, they have a job to do. 

“Hm, I think… this way,” George decides, facing the birch forest to their right. 

“No way, the stronghold is definitely this way,” Dream counters, facing the desert behind them. “Want to do the honors?” Dream asks. The ender eye hums in his hand before George tosses it up towards the rising sun. The eye banks across the sky, hovering in the direction of the distant mountains before falling into Dream’s outstretched hand. 

“I was close,” George shrugs, hefting his pack. 

Dream laughs. “You so were not.” 

“I can’t believe you thought it would go backwards,” George teases. 

Dream splutters a retort, but his face betrays his laughter. He’s yet to put his mask back on, and George is reluctant to bring it up for fear of shattering whatever this new thing growing between them is. He doesn’t have the words to describe it, to ask for it. It’s like standing in that river, current rushing past him, and desperately trying to hold on. He wades in deeper. 

“Shall we?” George asks. 

Dream laughs, face radiant in the early morning sun. “You talk so weird.” 

George sticks out his tongue at him and begins walking towards the mountains. “You talk weird.” 

Dream bumps George’s shoulder with his own. “Yeah, yeah.” 

They spend their days traveling, their evenings training, and their nights collapsing into deep, exhausted sleep. George wonders, absentmindedly, as they travel across the wilderness what bards might make of their story, two hunters off to slay the dragon. Would they sing of the solid thunk of Dream’s arrow striking true, sending an apple tumbling to the ground? Dream picks up the fruit and pulls out his arrow, the head sticky with juice. He offers the apple to George. “It worked!” 

George giggles. “Good job. See what I mean about compensating for the wind?” 

“Yeah. I pulled the bowstring back further too, like you said.” 

“I remember,” George smiles. “Good.” How could he forget the feeling of Dream’s arm flexing under his fingers as George demonstrated, flush against his back as they drew the bowstring back together. 

Dream bites into the apple sloppily, then dangles the mangled fruit in front of George’s face. “Want some?” 

“Ew, no,” George says, wrinkling his nose. 

Dream kisses his cheek, lips slightly sticky with the apple juice, and George startles, cheeks warming despite himself. “More for me,” Dream grins. 

Would they sing instead of the strike of their blades against each other, the swirling dance around their campfire, Dream’s pleased, private little smiles every time he has to regroup, his strike blocked by George’s shield?

Would they sing of the warmth of skin on skin as he kisses his way down Dream’s chest, exploring, or the dizzying way his walls flutter around him? The way Dream reaches for him as George rocks into him, face flushed and open as he pulls George down into a kiss? He hopes not. That part is just for them, a private song always beating in his chest. 

The ender eye hovers above them before diving down into the dirt below. Dream has his shovel out, grinning, before the eye touches the ground. “I think we’re here.” 

The stronghold is at once everything and nothing like he’d imagined, damp and ancient. Water drips from cracks in the stone brick ceiling, a drop landing on George’s head. He shivers, drawing his cloak around him. Dream lights a torch, illuminating a circle around them. “Let’s stick together,” he says. “There tend to be a lot of mobs here.” 

A zombie groans off to their right, and George unsheaths his sword. “Sounds good.” It would be easy to get lost in these winding halls. All the rooms look the same to George: dark, cold, and infested with mobs. A spider drops down in front of them, hissing, and George slashes through its soft body. It collapses in a heap of guts and string, and George jumps back to avoid it sloshing onto his boots. “Gross.” 

“What are you doing?” Dream laughs. 

“Uh, protecting you from that spider?” George answers, scanning the next room. “You should thank me.” 

“Thank you, George,” Dream says, smile evident in his voice.

George shoots a zombie that’s stupid enough to poke its head around the corner. “You’re very welcome, Dream.” George is starting to lose count of how many zombies and spiders and skeletons he’s dispatched when a glimmer catches his eye. “Dream, look.” 

Dream swivels towards the light, eyes sparkling. “Lava. That’s the portal room.” They bound toward it in unison, excitement palpable. A silverfish skitters across the floor, and George stabs it. Another one takes its place. 

“Fuck off,” George mutters, swinging at it as well. 

He hears the clink of Dream’s pickaxe against metal, before, “I broke the spawner.” Dream pours lava on the remaining silverfish, which hiss as they burn up. “Much better.” It’s quiet now, almost eerily so as he stares at the portal hovering in the center of the room. The frame rests on some type of stone he’s never seen before, pale yellow and porous. There are twelve perfectly circular divots in the metal frame, two of which stare up at him, filled with ender eyes. Dream places a crafting bench in the corner. “Give me your blaze rods.” The rods send sparks up his arms as he hands them to Dream, who places them in a grid on the crafting table. As George watches, he snaps a blaze rod in half with a satisfying crack. It disintegrates into shimmering golden dust, settling on the pearls like a fine coating of powdered sugar. 

For a moment, nothing happens, and George is tempted to say something to break the tension. Before he can speak, light blazes from the crafting table, like a star being born, obscuring the pearls. It’s so bright he has to look away, eyes squeezed shut against the glare. When the light fades, the powder has sunk into the pearls, imbuing them with that same shimmer. “Ender eyes,” George breathes. “Do they always do that? It’s very… dramatic.” 

Dream laughs. “Didn’t you see it when I made the two before to get us here?” 

“I guess I wasn’t paying attention,” George musters, picking up one of the eyes. It’s warmer than the pearls, almost metallic to the touch. 

“Place it in the frame,” Dream suggests. There’s a streak of blaze powder on his cheekbone, and George can’t help but kiss the spot. The dust stings his lips like lemon juice, sweet and acidic. Dream’s face is flushed when he pulls back. He’s glowing, and it isn’t just the blaze powder as Dream presses first fingers and then lips to George’s own, kissing him like a promise. “For luck,” he murmurs when they part for air. 

George laughs giddily. “I certainly feel lucky.” 

Dream beams and hands him more ender eyes. “Place these. Leave one spot empty though.” 

“Okay.” George proceeds up the few stairs in front of the portal, footsteps quiet on the crumbling stone. Each eye chimes as it slots into place in the frame, until only one empty spot remains. He watches from his perch above the small pool of lava as Dream mixes each of the remaining ender eyes with a ghast tear inside four glass bottles. Before his eyes, the mixtures turn purple and crystallize. Dream gingerly wraps the four end crystals in cloth and tucks them away in his pack.

“Ready?” Dream asks, donning his mask and helmet, sword in hand. 

George raises his own weapon, the final ender eye clutched in his other hand. “Let’s go.” He places the final eye, and a boom erupts through the stronghold, his entire body vibrating with the force of the sound. The portal looks like the night sky reflected in the ocean, stars shimmering in the waves. 

George jumps. 

He’s falling for minutes, for seconds, for years, it feels like, blind and weightless, blood rushing in his ears, he’s falling, falling, and then he isn’t. George’s stomach drops as he teeters on the edge of an obsidian platform, head spinning. Dream grasps the hem of his shirt, tugging him back from the edge. “Breathe,” he instructs. 

Frigid air fills George’s lungs. The obsidian they spawned on floats in the inky void. Maybe fifty blocks in front of them towers an island made up of that same pale yellow stone. “I’m good,” George says. 

Dream squeezes his shoulder. “Good. Remember, after we place the crystals, the towers are going to spawn with more of them. We have to shoot the crystals first so the dragon can’t heal, then we go for her.” 

George nods. “I got it. And don’t look at the endermen.” 

“Right.” Dream starts bridging across the void, and George follows cautiously. He doesn’t stop crouching until they’re firmly on the other side. The obsidian towers loom ahead of them in a ring, and they head for the center, keeping their heads down. An enderman teleports next to them, purple particles swirling in George’s vision, and he inhales sharply. Just as suddenly, it teleports away, leaving an acrid, smoky smell behind. Finally, they arrive at the exit portal, a bedrock ring swirling with the same night sky illusion as the portal they just came through. Dream takes out the crystals, and, one by one, he places a crystal on each corner of the portal. They bloom as they touch the bedrock, expanding from the palm of Dream’s hand to the size of George’s entire upper body, bobbing in the air as if buffeted by invisible waves. Dream places the last crystal, and a whooshing sound sweeps across the island. “Back up,” Dream calls above the noise, and they retreat in unison until their backs are to one of the towers. Beams of white light shoot up from each of the crystals, fusing together at a point high above them. George shades his eyes with his hand as the cone of light rotates through the ten towers, charging each of them with a crackling end crystal. Next to him, Dream raises his shield, and George does the same, settling into a fighting stance. He takes a deep breath, and then it happens. 

The dragon explodes through the exit portal with a roar, wings tearing through endstone like it’s cloth. The sound is a solid wall, buffeting them back against the obsidian tower. The rubble raining against their shields sounds like fireworks. The dragon hovers in the sky above them, stretching out her wings to their full length. There’s no sun here for her to blot out, but she looks as if she was formed from the void itself, nothingness taking shape into sinew and bone. She’s beautiful, in a dangerous, terrifying way. George almost feels sad for a second that they have to kill her. The dragon roars again, sending fuschia sparks rocketing towards them, and he and Dream roll out of the way. The exit portal below the dragon has gone lifeless and empty, only bedrock remaining where there used to be starry waves. 

There’s only one way out of here. 

George nods at Dream and notches his bow, aiming for one of the crystals dancing above the towers. His arrow strikes true, and it explodes with a boom. On his other side, he hears another crystal detonate, dispatched by Dream. George aims for the next crystal, which is caged by iron bars. 

Dream places a hand on his shoulder before George can pull back his bowstring. “I’ll build up and get it, you shoot the others.” 

“Wait, I think I can hit the crystal,” George counters, aiming at the small gap where the corner of the cage juts out over the obsidian edge. He lines up the shot, world narrowing to the cool glint of the arrowhead, and releases. Iron bars explode outward. Dream gapes at him, mouth slightly open. “Thought so,” George says nonchalantly, not even bothering to hide his grin. 

Dream shakes himself out of his stupor, smiling back at George. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. That was hot as fuck.” 

A laugh explodes out of George. “Oh my god. Later, Dream.” He shoots another crystal down, and Dream follows suit, circling the other way around the ring of towers. Above them, the dragon wheels around in the opposite direction. Another crystal explodes, and the dragon roars, the wall of sound still deafening, despite the distance. She stays airborne though, out of reach. George steels himself and pulls back his bowstring again. He sidesteps endermen, aims, and shoots, relaxing into the rhythm of it, the focus. George reaches for another arrow, but his fingers graze nothing but the side of his quiver. “Fuck.” He looks up to find Dream in front of him again. 

Dream hands him an arrow. “Here. It’s my last one.” 

“Thanks.” George feels the explosion rattle through his chest as he shoots the second-to-last crystal. 

“I’ll get the last one,” Dream states, pulling on a pair of black gloves. He places a block of cobblestone underneath him, then another, his back to the last obsidian tower. “Cover me.” 

“Okay.” George slings his bow over his shoulder and hefts his sword instead. Above them, the dragon’s flight path turns more erratic, jerky and inconsistent, like a bee without a hive. She bellows, and a ball of fire sails towards them. “Watch out!” George calls. The ground in front of him ignites, purple sparks splattering onto the wood of his shield, which sizzles. Above him, when he looks up, Dream is crouching behind a defensive block of cobblestone, the top of his mask all that’s visible. The dragon banks in a wide arc, wings outstretched, and wheels toward the bedrock portal in the center, orbiting it like it’s the sun in tighter and tighter circles, dipping closer to the ground each time. 

Dream starts climbing again, the green of his cloak dazzlingly bright against the dark tower. There’s a resounding boom as the last crystal breaks, and Dream drops down in front of George, mist spraying his face. George reaches for him on instinct, clutching Dream’s tunic in confusion. “Are you okay? How are you not hurt?” He’s never seen someone fall like that and land intact. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Dream says, capping a skein of water and returning it to his belt. “I’ll show you that trick later.” 

Dream squeezes George’s shoulder, the warm pressure of his hand steadying him, and George’s finally able to pry his fingers from the green fabric of his tunic, relieved. “You’d better.” 

Dream smiles. “I will.” 

George brushes soot from Dream’s shoulder, smoothing the wrinkled material of his cloak, before returning his hands to his sword and shield. “Alright, let’s kill this dragon.” The dragon in question is staring at them, crouched over the empty portal like she’s defending it. A calm washes over George as they stride towards the dragon, settling over him like a second set of armor. Their footsteps ring hollow on the porous stone. An enderman murmurs indistinctly as it teleports away, a flash the only indicator it was ever there. He can feel the storm coming, the hair on his arms prickling with electricity. There’s a faint ozone smell that tickles his throat as he breathes in, a metallic taste to the air that reminds him of blood. For a moment, it’s quiet enough for George to hear Dream breathing evenly next to him as they walk forward. The dragon’s eyes narrow, and George has the distinct, disconcerting feeling that she’s sizing them up the same way they’re sizing her up. The moment stretches out like the space between heartbeats, the heady strain of pulling the bowstring taut, arrow unwaveringly aimed at the target. It’s impossible to stay in that space forever. Eventually, you have to release the arrow, and hope it strikes true. 

The dragon roars and charges forward, hot air buffeting George’s face as he dives to the side, twisting around to strike. His sword scrapes against her scales with the rasp of stone grinding against stone as he drives the blade upwards. Suddenly, all resistance disappears, and his sword tears through flesh like it’s paper. George almost loses his balance from the sudden change in momentum. He rips his sword from the dragon’s wing as she rears up on her hind legs with a pained cry. The dragon flaps her wings frantically, claws scraping the ground as she fights to get airborne, her tattered wing rippling like a banner. Dream attacks from the other side, blade slipping between her scales. Blood sprays from her wound, red droplets splattering on the endstone. The dragon snaps at them, thrashing wildly as she gives up her attempt at flight. This time, George’s blow strikes true, tearing through scales and into unprotected flesh. He and Dream attack again and again, dodging fireballs and fangs as they slowly wear her down. Time doesn’t exist, pain doesn’t exist, only the lethal dance of the battle. 

The dragon swings at them sluggishly, and George dodges easily. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dream jump over her flailing tail and onto her back, crouching to balance on her rippling scales. The dragon raises herself up part way before her legs buckle, crashing back down like the effort is insurmountable. The dragon pants, hunched over the ground, scales coated in her own blood. She blinks one enormous, purple eye at them as if in understanding. 

It was always going to end like this. 

Dream’s blade slices through her neck like lightning striking the ground, swift and final. George sees the moment her muscles go slack, collapsing in a lifeless heap on the ground. Behind the dragon, the portal flickers back to life. George breathes out, long and slow. He feels like a skipping stone that’s finally reached its last bounce, splashing down into the water it once skimmed over. 

Dream stumbles, still atop the dragon’s back, and George offers him a hand. Dream takes it, and George helps him down. Dream’s hands are slick with blood, gloves and palms torn up by the dragon’s razor-sharp scales. George fumbles in his bag for a healing potion. “Here,” he says, uncapping it. 

Dream takes the bottle, smearing blood on the glass. “Thanks,” he breathes out, hauling George close. George buries his face in Dream’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and blood and dust. He can’t smell much better himself. 

“Heal,” George insists, pulling away. Dream sighs but obliges, gulping down the potion. George sees his shoulders relax as the instant healing takes effect, smoothing over the worst of the injuries. He can’t even feel his own, adrenaline still in full force. George uncaps another potion and drinks it himself for good measure, cuts stinging as the magic knits them up. “I need a bath. And a nap.” 

“Me too,” Dream laughs, pouring water over his hands to clean them. “We’ll have to see where the portal lets us out. It should be by the village that hired us, but you never know.” George nods, grabbing a cloth from his pack to wipe down his sword. He’ll have to clean it properly later, but this will do for now. Dream sheaths his own sword. “Here, I’ll grab the head.” He unfolds a piece of fabric from his bag and wraps the dragon head in it before setting it in a box. 

“Gross,” George remarks. “I guess we need some form of proof.” 

Dream shrugs. “Makes sense. I’ll be happy to hand it over though.” 

“Me too. Are you ready to go?” 

Dream surveys the barren landscape. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

When they finally stop falling, it’s daytime. The sun stings George’s eyes, disorienting after so long in the perpetual twilight of the End. He rubs his eyes, blinking them open to see a forest clearing. Dream stretches next to him, groaning. In the distance, George can see a village, guard towers set atop the hill like a crown. They start walking, too tired to speak. Despite the exhaustion, it feels good to be done, deeply satisfying to look up at that village and know there won’t be any more shadows blocking out the sun. It feels good. 

Somewhere along the way, as they walk, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, Dream’s hand finds its way into George’s. George intertwines their fingers, feeling smooth, warm skin brush against his own palm. There’s no trace of the wounds inflicted by the dragon, only calluses from years of training. Dream squeezes his hand, and George feels the corners of his mouth curve upwards. 

George squeezes back. 

All it takes is one look at the dragon head for the guards at the gate to usher Dream and George to the mayor’s house. George catches a glimpse of him and Dream in the fountain as they cross through the town square and grimaces. It might be easiest to burn these clothes. That’s a problem for another day though, namely tomorrow. It’s a simple exchange, dragon head for gold and lodging, and then they’re on their way back across the town square toward the inn. 

George strips off his filthy shirt the minute they’re in the room, tossing it on the floor to deal with later. “I’ll run a bath,” Dream says. George can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Thank you,” George replies. He sits on the edge of the tub as Dream turns on the water, breathing in the rising steam. He dips his hand idly into the water, watching it creep up his arm as the water level rises. 

Dream shuts off the tap and strips down before getting into the tub, sending little waves lapping at the ceramic sides. “Come here,” he says softly, tugging at the waistband of George’s pants. George steps out of them wordlessly, casting the rest of his clothes aside to join Dream in the tub. “Ow, George,” Dream chokes, shifting to make room for him. “You’re elbowing my side.” 

“Well, move your side,” George quips. Dream yanks him backwards, causing water to splash out over the sides. “Dream!” 

“Just stay still,” Dream grumbles as he wraps his arms around George’s torso, holding his back flush against Dream’s chest. 

George sighs and sinks into the hot water, feeling his tense muscles unwind. “Okay, okay.” He can’t bring himself to move until the water starts to go cold at least half an hour later. Finally, George musters his resolve and reaches for the soap. 

“The water’s filthy, we’re not even getting clean at this point,” Dream jokes, squirming down to submerge his chest underwater and rinse off the suds. 

“We could run another bath,” George suggests half-heartedly, scrubbing his legs. “But we’d never get up.”

“True.” 

The water gurgles as it drains out of the tub. George shivers in his towel as the cool air meets his wet skin. He dresses quickly in his last set of clean clothes before jumping into bed, wriggling down under the covers. He’s already half-asleep when Dream joins him, tucking himself under George’s arm to rest his head on his chest. George pulls him closer and lets the waves of exhaustion carry him to sleep. 

George could get used to waking up like this: soft mattress, no rocks, the comfortable weight of Dream’s head on his chest, the late morning sunlight tinting his hair gold. His nose whistles every time he breathes out. The sound stops, and Dream shifts, stretching languidly. “Good morning,” he mumbles. 

“Good morning,” George answers, brushing Dream’s hair from his eyes. He blinks up at George sleepily. “So, where to next?” he asks. “Another dragon?” 

Dream hums thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so. Not right now. I was actually thinking I might head home for a while, visit everybody.” Dream smooths a hand absentmindedly over George’s side, fidgeting. “Uh, what about you?” 

It’s an easy decision. “I’ll go where you go,” George answers. “If that’s okay.” 

Dream kisses him thoroughly, grinning. “That's more than okay.” 

If you listen closely in taverns or around campfires, if you’re lucky, you might hear the tale of the two hunters. Warriors, heroes, two men who fight hard and love harder, who will go to the ends of the earth to protect the world from evil. No monster is any match for their otherworldly speed and strength, or their skill with both blade and bow. The details of the story differ between storytellers, but there is one constant. When the dragon is slain and the battle is won, the two hunters always return home. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please comment and let me know what you thought. Validate me smile :) 
> 
> Also, this is my fourth dnf work, so if you liked what you read maybe check out my profile? Haha jk, unless...


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